With a Little Luck (The Americana Series Book 49)

by Janet Dailey

  “Maybe some milk,” her mother answered, “but other than that, I can’t think of anything.”

  “Okay. I’ll be back later,” she called over her shoulder as she pushed open the door to the porch.

  Sliding into the driver’s seat of the sedan, Eve felt as bright and sunny as the summer afternoon. She had dressed to match her mood that day. The terry-cloth material of her short-sleeved top and slacks was a cheerful canary yellow, trimmed with white. A white hairband kept her brown hair away from her face, framing its oval shape.

  It was a short drive to the combination grocery and general store that served the resort community. The Rowland family had traded there many times in past summers, so Eve was a familiar face to the owners. She chatted with them a few minutes as she paid for her purchases.

  When she started to leave, she heard a man’s voice ask to speak to the owner. It sounded vaguely familar, but when she turned to see if it was anyone she knew, the man was hidden from her view by an aisle. Since the man had business with the owner, and since it was possible she didn’t even know him, Eve continued out of the store, dismissing the incident from her mind.

  She’d left the car in the store’s parking area. She walked toward it, but it was only when she got closer that she began to realize something was wrong. Her steps slowed and her eyes widened in disbelief at the sight of the shattered windshield and the three-inch-diameter hole in the glass.

  Stunned, Eve absently glanced in the side window and saw the baseball lying on the front seat. Reacting mechanically, she opened the door and reached to pick up the ball amid the splintered chips of glass on the car seat.

  “That’s my ball.” A young boy’s voice claimed ownership of the object in her hand.

  Still too stunned to be angry or upset, Eve turned to look at him. A baseball cap was perched atop a mass of dark brown hair, while a pair of unblinking innocent blue eyes stared back at her. Eve judged the boy to be eight, no older than nine. She had the feeling that she had seen him somewhere before, possibly at school

  “Did you do this?” She gestured toward the broken windshield, using the same hand that held the baseball.

  “Not exactly. You see my dad just bought me this new baseball glove.” He glanced at the oversized leather mitt on his left hand. “We were trying it out to see how it worked. I asked dad to throw me a hard one so I could tell whether there was enough padding to keep my hand from stinging. Only when he did, it was too high and the ball hit the tip of my glove and bounced off, then smashed your windshield. It must have hit it just right,” he declared with a rueful grimace. “So it was really my dad who threw the ball. I just didn’t catch it.”

  “A parking lot isn’t the place to play catch.” At the moment, that was the only thing Eve could think of to say. It was a helpless kind of protest, lacking the strength to change a deed that was already done.

  “We know that now,” the boy agreed.

  “Where’s your father?”

  “He went into the store to see if they knew who the car belonged to,” he explained. “He told me to stay here in case you came back while he was gone.”

  The comment jogged her memory of the man who had been in the store asking to speak to the owner. She started to turn when she heard the same voice ask, “Is this your car?”

  “It’s my father’s.” Eve completed the turn to face the boy’s father.

  Cold shock froze her limbs into immobility. It was the stranger she’d met outside the tavern last week. The rumpled darkness of his hair grew in thick waves, a few strands straying onto his forehead. The same magnetic blue eyes were looking at her with warm interest. The sunlight added a rough vitality to the handsomely masculine features.

  Eve waited, unconsciously holding her breath, for the recognition to show in his eyes as she mentally braced herself to watch that mouth with its ready smile form the words “brown mouse.” But it didn’t happen. He didn’t recognize her. Evidently the combination of liquor and the night’s shadows had made her image hazy in his mind. Eve just hoped it stayed that way, as feeling began to steal back into her limbs.

  He glanced at the baseball in her hand. “I hope Toby explained what happened.” His expression was pleasant, yet serious.

  “Yes, he did.” She was conscious of how loudly her heart was pounding. “At least he said you threw the ball and he missed it.”

  “I’m afraid that’s what happened,” he admitted with a faintly rueful lift of his mouth. “Naturally I’ll pay the cost of having the windshield replaced on your father’s car, Miss — ”

  “Rowland. Eve Rowland.” She introduced herself and was glad that between the sack of groceries in one arm and the ball in the other hand, she wasn’t able to shake hands.

  “My name is Luck McClure, and this is my son, Toby.” He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder with a trace of parental pride. “We’re spending the summer at a lake house a few miles from here.”

  Eve was certain she had misunderstood his name. “Did you say Luke McClure?”

  “No,” He smiled, as if it were a common mistake. “It’s Luck — as in good luck. Although in actual fact the proper name of Luck has its derivations in the name of Luke or Lucias. It’s one of those family names that somehow manages to get passed along to future generations.”

  “I see,” she murmured, and glanced at Toby, who had obviously not been named after his father. She wondered if there were another little Luck somewhere at home. At least now she understood why the boy had seemed familiar at first. There was a definite resemblance between him and his father.

  “With that windshield smashed, you aren’t going to be able to see to drive home,” Luck stated. “I would appreciate it if you would let us give you a ride.”

  Under the circumstances, Eve didn’t know any other way that she could get back to the cottage if she didn’t accept his offer. “Yes, thank you,” she nodded.

  “May I have my baseball back?” the boy spoke up.

  “Of course.” She handed it to him.

  “Our car is parked over here.” Luck McClure reclaimed her attention, directing her toward a late-model Jaguar. “Did you say the car was your father’s?”

  “Yes. He’s at the cottage.”

  “Is that where you would like me to drive you?” He walked around to open the passenger door for her while his son climbed in the back seat.

  “Yes. My parents and I are spending the summer there.” Eve waited until he was behind the wheel to give him directions.

  “That isn’t far from our house,” he commented, and Eve wished it was in the opposite direction. Any minute now she just knew he was going to recognize her, which would make things uncomfortable, if not embarrassing. “I’ll make arrangements with your father about paying for the windshield.”

  Briefly Eve wondered if that was a slur at her sex, insinuating that she wasn’t capable of making adequate arrangements because she was a woman. She doubted it, though. Luck McClure was definitely all man, but he didn’t strike her as the chauvinistic type. More than likely he simply wanted to deal directly with the owner of the car. Which suited her fine. The less she saw of him, the less chance there would be that he’d remember her.

  The rounded bill of a baseball cap entered her side vision as the boy leaned over the seat. “I really thought you’d be mad when you saw what we did to your car. How come you weren’t?”

  The question made her smile. “I was too stunned. I couldn’t believe what I saw.”

  “I couldn’t, either, when it happened,” Luck admitted with a low chuckle. It reached out to share the moment of amusement with her and pulled her gaze in his direction.

  With less wariness, Eve let herself forget their first meeting outside the tavern. There was an easy charm about Luck McClure that she found attractive, in addition to his looks. It had a quality of bold friendliness to it.

  “Flirting” was a word that had a female connotation, but this was one time when Eve felt it could apply to a man without dimini
shing his virility. In fact, the gleam lurking in his blue eyes and the ready smile enhanced it. Part of her wished this was their first meeting, because she knew sooner or later he would recognize his “brown mouse.” And a man like Luck McClure would never be attracted to a brown mouse.

  His gaze slid from the road long enough to meet her eyes. There was warm male interest in the look that ran over her face, a look that probably had its basis in a curiosity similar to the one Eve had just experienced. She was briefly stimulated by it until she remembered how futile it was to be attracted to him. Eve glanced at the road a second before his attention returned to it.

  “Our place is just ahead on the left,” Eve stated.

  As Luck slowed the car to make the turn into the short driveway, the boy, Toby, announced, “We go by here all the time. I didn’t think anybody lived in that house. When did you move in?”

  “This past weekend,” she replied, then wondered if that would jog Luck’s memory of the tavern incident. A quick glance didn’t find any reaction. “We spend the summers here. We sometimes come here during the winter holidays to snowmobile or ice-fish and do some cross-country skiing.”

  “Do you like to ski?” Toby’s questions continued even after the car stopped.

  “With Mt. Telemark practically in our back-yard, it would be a shame if I didn’t,” A faint smile touched her mouth as she shifted the sack of groceries to open the door. “As it happens, I enjoy it.”

  “Me, too. Dad took me skiing last Christmas.” The boy scrambled out of the back seat to join his father. “Next year I’ll be good enough to ski with him.” He tipped his head back to look up at his father for confirmation. “Won’t I, dad?”

  “By the end of next winter, you’ll be a veteran of the slopes,” Luck agreed with a lazy smile, and waited until Eve had walked around the front of the car before starting toward the log cottage.

  With this tall, good-looking man beside her, she felt oddly self-conscious — sensation that had nothing to do with their previous encounter. It was more an awareness of physical attraction than an uneasiness. She failed to notice that Toby wasn’t with them until the car door slammed again and the boy came running after them. Simultaneously she paused with Luck McClure to see what had delayed Toby.

  “You left the keys in the ignition again, dad,” the boy declared with an adult reprimand in his expression, and handed the car keys to his father. “That’s how cars get stolen.”

  “Yes, Toby.” Luck accepted the admonishment with lazy indulgence and slipped the keys into his pocket.

  When they started toward the porch again, Toby tagged along.

  Her parents recovered quickly from their initial surprise at the strange man and boy accompanying Eve into the house. She introduced them, then Luck took over the explanation of the shattered windshield. Exhibiting his typical understanding, her father was not angered by the accident…more amused than anything.

  While they discussed particulars, Eve went into the kitchen to put away the milk she’d got. She remained in the alcove, satisfied to just observe the easy way Luck McClure related to her parents. It was a knack few people had. It came naturally to him, part of his relaxed, easygoing style.

  With all his apparent friendliness, Eve didn’t doubt that he could handle authority equally well. There was something in his presence that commanded respect. It was an understated quality, but that didn’t lessen its strength.

  Her gaze strayed to the boy standing beside Luck. He was listening attentively to all that was being said, possessing an oddly mature sense of responsibility for a boy of his age. His only motion was tossing the ball into his glove and retrieving it to toss it methodically again.

  With the milk put away, Eve was running out of reasons to dawdle in the kitchen. Since she didn’t want to take part in the conversation between her parents and Luck McClure, she took her suntan lotion and shampoo and slipped away to her bedroom. She paused in front of the vanity mirror above her dresser and studied her reflection.

  The white band sleeked her brown hair away from her face, emphasizing features that were not so serene as they normally were. Eve touched the mouth that looked softer and fuller, fingertips brushing the curve. There was an added glow of suppressed excitement in the luminous brown of her eyes. The cause of it was Luck McClure and that never ending question of when he would recognize her.

  With all the cheery yellow of her pants and top, Eve admitted to herself that she didn’t look like a brown mouse. If anything, a sunflower was more apt — with its bright yellow petals and brown center.

  “You really are a ‘vanity’ mirror,” Eve murmured, and turned away from the reflecting glass before she became too wrapped up in her appearance.

  But her subconscious made a silent resolution not to wear brown again.

  From now on, only bright colors would be added to her wardrobe, Drab clothing did nothing to improve her looks. “Brown mouse” — the phrase mocked her with its recollections of that night.

  Eve dreaded the time when she would meet his wife, but in this small resort community it would be impossible for their paths not to cross sometime during the course of the summer. It would be foolish to try to avoid it. But what do you say to a woman whose husband tried to pick you up?

  What kind of marriage did he have? He had said it was lonely at home and he wanted to talk to someone. He and his wife were obviously having trouble, Eve concluded. Or maybe he was just the type that stepped out anyway. No, she shook that thought away. Indulging in an idle flirtation would come naturally to him, but Luck McClure wasn’t the type to let it go beyond the bantering of words. There was too much depth to him for that.

  What did it matter? He was married. Regardless of the problems he was having, Luck was the kind who would persist until he solved them. It was ridiculous to waste her time thinking about a married man, no matter how interesting and compelling he might be.

  The closing of the screen door and the cessation of voices from the front room turned Eve to face her bedroom door. She listened and heard the opening of car doors outside. The tall arresting man and his son were leaving.

  It was just as well. Now she could come out of hiding — the realization stopped her short of the door. She had been hiding. Hiding because he had looked at her with a man’s interest in the opposite sex and her ego hadn’t wanted him to remember that she was a plain brown mouse. So what had she done? Scurried off into her hole, just like a brown mouse.

  Never again, Eve resolved, and left her “hole” to return to the front room. The only occupant was her mother. Eve glanced around, noticing the Jaguar was gone from the driveway.

  “Where’s dad?”

  “Mr. McClure drove him back to the car. They called a garage. A man’s coming over to pick up our car and replace the broken windshield,” her mother explained. “He should be back shortly.”

  An hour later her father returned, but it was the mechanic who brought him back — not Luck McClure.

  Chapter Three

  THE ROWLANDS WERE without transportation for two days. On the morning of the third day, the garage owner delivered the car, complete with a new windshield. The day had started out with gray and threatening skies. By the time the car was returned it began drizzling. And by noon it was raining steadily, confining Eve indoors.

  With the car returned, her parents decided to restock their grocery supplies that afternoon. They invited Eve to come with them, but since they planned to visit some of their friends while they were out, she declined.

  On rainy days she usually enjoyed curling up with a book, but on this occasion she was too restless to read. Since she had the entire afternoon on her hands, she decided to do some baking and went into the kitchen to stir up a batch of chocolate chip cookies, her father’s favorite.

  Soon the delicious smell of cookies baking in the oven filled the small cottage and chased away the gloom of the gray rainy day. Cookies from two sheet trays were cooling on the kitchen counter, atop an opened newspaper
. Eve glanced through the glass door of the oven at the third sheet. Its cookies were just beginning to brown, a mere minute away from being done.

  The thud of footsteps on the wooden porch floor reached her hearing, straightening Eve from the oven. An instant after they stopped, there was a knock on the door. She cast a glance at the oven, then went to answer the door. A splash of flour had left a white streak on the burgundy velour of her top. She brushed at it but only succeeded in spreading the white patch across her stomach. Eve was still brushing at it when she opened the door.

  The slick material of a dark blue Windbreaker glistened with rain across a set of wide shoulders that turned at the sound of the opening door. Her hand stopped its motion when Eve looked into a pair of arresting blue eyes.

  A tiny electric shock quivered through her nerve ends at the sight of Luck McClure on the other side of the wire mesh screen. Dampness gave a black sheen to his dark brown hair. Toby was beside him, his face almost lost under the hooded sweat shirt pulled over his head and tied under his chin. Beyond the shelter of the porch roof, rain fell in an obscuring gray curtain.

  “Hello, Mr. McClure,” Eve recovered her voice to greet him calmly.

  An easy casual smile touched his mouth, so absently charming. “I stopped to — ”

  His explanation was interrupted by the oven timer dinging its bell a signal Eve the cookies should be done. “Excuse me. I have something in the oven.” Manners dictated that she couldn’t leave them standing on the porch, so she quickly unhooked the screen door. “Come in,” she invited hurriedly, and retraced her path to the kitchen to remove the cookies before they burned.

  Behind her she heard the screen door open and the shuffle of incoming footsteps. “Don’t forget to wipe your feet, dad,” Toby murmured the conscientious reminder.

  Opening the oven door, Eve took a pot holder and used it to absorb the heat of the metal cookie sheet while she lifted it out of the oven. Another tray of individually spooned cookie dough was sitting on the counter, ready to be put in to bake. She slipped it on the rack with her free hand and closed the oven door.